


Mayhaps, in time...

by emmiemac



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Arranged Marriage, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, post-abuse trauma, post-rape trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-26
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:28:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7591063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmiemac/pseuds/emmiemac
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on the HBO TV series and all the internet speculation about the coming season: Jon's true parentage is revealed and the Starks must act to keep Winterfell and protect the North. The best way to do that is a marriage and a joint rule by the king and queen of the North. But will that be the best way for Jon and Sansa?</p><p>There is now a Russian translation available with many thanks to blueroseofadream. Here is the link: https://ficbook.net/readfic/6324777</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This fic is entirely based on HBO’s tv series Game of Thrones characters and plotline.

 

She had smiled at him today, over her shoulder and from across the yard as she walked away; but still he felt somewhat encouraged. It was a real smile, not the fixed smile she had worn on their marriage day, nor the dutiful smile he had sensed when they came across each other in the castle when others were about. _Your Grace,_ she called him in front of everyone; _the king_ he had overheard her refer to him when speaking to a guardsman.

 _The King in the North_ , they had all called him, just as they had called Robb. He had only wanted to be a Stark, had dreamed secretly of being Lord of Winterfell and now he was a king.

But they had named Jon Snow king because he was Eddard Stark’s son, though he was a bastard. But then he had discovered that he was a Targaryen: a bastard of Rhaegar and Lyanna. Bran had told him, and Howland Reed had confirmed it; but would the North want a Targaryen bastard for their king? By rights Winterfell, and Robb’s fallen crown, belonged to Sansa, who was now his cousin.

“They didn’t want me, Jon,” she had argued, “the lords didn’t choose me: they choose you.”

“Because they thought I was Ned Stark’s son,” he had raged. “Do you think they will support me once they find out I’m not? They’re like to call for my _head_!” He had thrown a tankard of ale across the solar in frustration, nearly striking Lord Reed. Fortunately the crannogman was of small stature and it flew above his head. “The North rebelled _against_ the Targaryens! Father… _your_ father fought Rhaegar and the Mad King for what they did to Lyanna and Brandon and Lord Rickard. They’ll never accept me now! There is supposed to be a _Stark_ in Winterfell, Sansa; and you are the eldest legitimate child of Lord Eddard and sister to Robb. Bran won’t rule; and Rickon’s _dead_ …and gods only know what happened to Arya but you come before she does!”

“Listen to me,” she had insisted as she crossed from where she had been seated by the hearth to grab his hand and squeeze it to try to calm him. “You’re a Stark to me, Jon: you always will be. Lyanna was as much a Stark as father; and he treated you as a son. You fought for Winterfell and freed the North from the Bolton’s rule-“

“You did that, Sansa, with the knights of the Vale…”

‘I didn’t fight; and I was never sure they would come, you know that: you know that’s why I couldn’t tell you about them. At the very least we did it together. You’ve earned your place as king, regardless of which Stark was your parent.”

There was a long silence before he answered. “ _They_ won’t think so,” he had insisted hoarsely before turning to leave the solar. “Ghost, to me.”

The great, silent white direwolf stood up from its hindquarters and followed him.

…….

Their marriage had been Howland Reed’s counsel, based on Sansa’s words that they had reclaimed Winterfell and the North together.

“You both have your strengths as leaders. You both have Stark blood. Rule together and no one in the North will challenge you, or the legitimacy of your children. They will be Starks, as you both are.”

Jon had been dumbfounded at the idea. Marry Sansa? A Targaryen he might be by blood, but not in name: he was still a bastard by birth. He had no right to any highborn girl, much less Ned Stark’s daughter; a girl he had always thought of as his sister. He noticed that she looked equally shocked, if not more so. Her mouth had fallen open and she had dropped her eyes in confusion and, as he saw it, horror. Sansa had been married, and it had been a terrible nightmare for her: an ordeal from which she had not even begun to recover, despite the Bolton bastard’s death. How could she marry again, and to another bastard: one she had thought was her own half-brother until the night before? Lord Reed as asking too much of her and he said so plainly.

“You can’t ask that of Sansa. I _won’t_ ask that of Sansa. We’ll needs find another way. There has to be another way,” he’d stated firmly and once again walked out of the solar.

She came to him soon after on the walls where he stood looking out towards the Wolfswood as the sun set. She stood beside him silently for a time, looking out with a brooding but determined countenance that was wholly unlike the girl she had once been; then she took a deep breath and spoke:

“Lord Reed is right,” she said finally. “There is no other way, Jon.”

He shook his head. “I can’t do this to you, Sansa: make you marry for an alliance that you don’t need.”

She looked down to Ghost who had come to sit beside her, and she stroked his fur with her gloved hand. “Do you think if I am accepted as queen, or even just the Lady of Winterfell, that they will not expect me to marry for an alliance? You know they will, just as much as I know it. I will have to marry some other man I hardly know and be at his mercy; and my children would not even be Starks then. There must be Starks in Winterfell, Jon.”

“You are a Stark. Winterfell is yours by right. And you are better at politics than I am. I failed as Lord Commander and I failed at attacking the Bolton army; but you succeeded in bringing the Vale to our cause.”

“Only because it was what Littlefinger wanted; had he wanted us to fail then he would not have lifted his little finger to help us.”

He turned to look at her then and waited. She kept on stroking his direwolf’s head and the animal leaned into her. It had grown dark very quickly, and the light of the torches behind them threw deep shadows around them.

“Jon, he has been trying to undermine you ever since you were named king, before even: it’s me alone that he wants ruling the North and if that is what Littlefinger wants then it is what I _don’t_ want. He’ll only try to use me, or worse,” she almost shudders at her words. “He only wants what serves him,” she finishes bitterly.

“No. I won’t let him. I’ll stay here and protect you. I promised you, Sansa-“

“He wants to divide us and make us weaker so I’ll need him. ‘We need to trust each other’: that’s what you said, isn’t it? ‘We have so many enemies now.’ There are too many; and I’m no good on my own, I don’t know how to fight and the South will turn against us soon; they have already re-taken Riverrun. The wildlings will back you, some of the Northern lords may even back me but together all of the North will back us both.”

“It’s not just about the North, Sansa,” he argued, “it’s about _us_. Do you know what marriage will mean? We’ll have to…we’ll needs have children together,” he stumbled over the words and felt like an idiot, but he persisted. “Are you ready for that…again? I wasn’t sure you would want to marry at all after-“

Sansa stiffened and looked grim. “I can’t let him take that from me: it’s what I was born to do. It was all I ever wanted, once.”

“I’m sorry, Sansa, that you didn’t get what you wanted,” he murmured and he meant it.

“We none of us do, none of us Starks anyway. What about you, Jon? You wanted to join the Night’s Watch. Maybe you don’t want to take a wife and father children: are those not the vows that you take?”

“They are.” Now it was his turn to sound bitter. “They were…but I’m not a man of the Night’s Watch anymore.”

“Mayhaps you just don’t want me,” she said resignedly. “I’m sure I have always thought too much of myself.”

“Any man would want you, Sansa,” he said too emphatically.

“For my body…and for my claim,” she replied evenly, “and for heirs: that is all I am worth to any man.”

“Don’t say that, Sansa,” he countered in a pained voice. He hated that she should think less of herself because of things that were done to her, through no fault of her own but for being a Stark of Winterfell.

“It’s true though; I know it to be true: I used to dream that some man would love and want _me_ , for myself. Now all they see is this castle, and the title that goes with it, and the chance to start a new line of a great house,” she told him with dispirited calm and reason.

“It was all supposed to be Robb’s,” he cannot help saying now as he looks around at the walls of the castle and into the yard below and to the rills beyond. “It was never supposed to be one of us. I was supposed to make my own way; but you were always meant to be the lady of a castle,” he reminds her.

“I’m sorry too, Jon, that you didn’t get what you wanted,” she tells him now, and he has no answer.

_Didn’t I? I wanted Winterfell. I wanted a girl with strength, and with red hair; maybe I could again. Ygritte was strong and determined, but she wanted me too, and we would love and laugh together._

He thought about their first time in the cave beyond the Wall, and wondered if Sansa would want to live in a cave with him, just to have him all to herself. He doubted it. But matches had been made for strategic alliances before, and for duty…just like Lord Eddard’s and Lady Catelyn’s; and had certainly always been so for kings and queens. Sansa had been right about that. He looked back to her now: it had begun to snow again, and snowflakes were settling on her hair and her heavy fur cloak.

 _Winter is here._ They hadn’t time to find another way.

“How…how would we tell them? How do we let them all know that I’m not your father’s son? That we are not brother and sister?”

In the deep blue darkness of the evening, he thought he saw a ghost of a smile cross her lips.

“We don’t. Littlefinger will do it for us.”

…….

She had been right. Once Sansa had confided Jon’s true parentage to Littlefinger, he had set about trying to turn the Northern lords towards supporting her as heir to Winterfell and the North, proclaiming her the trueborn daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. Once the lords had gathered in the Great Hall to confront them, it had been Sansa who stood and spoke.

“What you have all been told is true. Lord Reed was at the Tower of Joy with my father, as you all know; and he was the only other man to know the truth: Jon is my aunt Lyanna’s son, though my father raised him as his own.” Before they could scarce do more than begin to murmur and grumble, she spoke again:

“We none of us would be here in Winterfell without Jon; and the Stark line must continue, and so…and so we have decided to that it is right for us to marry. We will keep the Stark name,” she intoned authoritatively over the louder mutterings now, “and ensure that there will always be Starks in Winterfell for generations to come.”

He spots Lord Baelish out of the corner of his eye and the man is obviously unhappy with Sansa’s announcement but, having urged other Lords to support her he cannot change his position now without looking a fool, or seen as the manipulative opportunist that Sansa knows him to be. She was right again; and she has won them the support of the North and secured the future of House Stark. But first they must be wedded and bedded…and Jon is still not certain that he can do that; he is positive that she cannot possibly be ready. Nevertheless, she is steadfast and seemingly serene as preparations are made. She had ordered the gown from her wedding to Bolton’s bastard burned once it was discovered after they had re-taken the castle; so she works at stitching together some of Lady Catlyn’s pieces and creating a gown of blue and grey embroidered with the Stark direwolf. He cannot help wondering if she will wear it with the Tully fastenings: those dangling silver trouts that Lady Catelyn always wore, and he winces inwardly at the thought.

The night before they are to be wed in the godswood, Sansa drinks too much and steals into his chamber.

Jon sits up suddenly in bed and reaches for the dagger on the nearby table. He releases his grip when Sansa comes into view of the light of his single candle end. Her hair is braided down her back, and she clutches the front of her fur-trimmed robe closed tightly with both hands. Her eyes are wide and fixed open.

“Sansa? What’s wrong?” he asks, alarmed. “Has someone tried to hurt you?”

“I…no…Jon,” she stammers quietly. “I thought…I thought you should know…you should see w-what he did to me…h-how I look now.”

Her voice is thick, whether from wine or tears or both Jon is not certain, but when she makes to release her grip on her robe he reaches to clutch her fists closed again.

“No. You…you don’t need to do that. You’re beautiful, Sansa; I don’t care how it looks,” he stumbles, “or what he did to you, I mean, other than that he hurt you. Sansa…I have to ask you again: are you sure about this? I…I don’t think you’re ready-“

“Please,” she interrupts abruptly, ‘Please, just…do it now. Just…bed me and have it done,” she blurts with a shaky intake of breath. “I trust you, Jon, so just-“

 _She wants me to bed her so that I have to marry her, and she’ll have to marry me. She wants me to make it impossible for her to change her mind._ His heart went out to her, even as his own hardened somewhat. He shakes his head slowly now.

“I won’t, Sansa: I won’t bed you until you are my wife…and my queen. You deserve that. You’re still a lady; and you’re a Stark.”

He leans to kiss her forehead. It’s a brotherly kiss but he means it to be reverential and comforting. It is also the best he can do right now.

“Wait here, Sansa,” he murmurs, and he leaves to find the girl who is serving as her maid and brings her back with him. “Take Lady Sansa back to her chambers and stay with her. She…she’s having bad dreams.” Then he watches as Sansa hangs her head penitently and meekly lets her maid take her arm and lead her gently from the room.

He lies awake for a long time. When he does sleep, he dreams of Ygritte.

_You know nothing, Jon Snow._


	2. Chapter 2

 

“Jon? Are you busy now…might I have a word?”

He turned from the great large table in the solar that they both used to write scrolls or examine ledgers or to discuss the business of the castle with the maester or the captain of the guards or any visiting lords. Sansa stood in the doorway instead of walking into the solar and sitting down across from him as she always did whenever they needed to talk about matters. She was dressed in her Tully blue gown and cloak: they suited her well, but made him uneasy. They were too much a reminder of Lady Catelyn, and his memories of her mother made him uncomfortable with her. He wondered in turn if his resemblance to her father was appealing or disconcerting to her. Mayhaps that was another reason… But whatever their respective reasons, they had become distant: there was no denying it. He is sure the entire castle has noticed. He was always getting those infuriating sly smirks from Littlefinger, the looks that make him wish for his father’s…for Lord Eddard’s greatsword, Ice. Longclaw was his now; but it was Ice that he still associated with meting out justice and for what the loathsome man had done to Sansa by selling her to the Bolton heir, Jon thought Littlefinger deserved to feel the harshness of Northern justice. But now was not the time for that.

“Come in, Sansa,” he said politely now. “It’s your solar as much as mine; and I always have time for you.” He set down his quill and set aside the parchments before him so as to give her his undivided attention. He noted that she wrung her hands before turning to shut the heavy door behind her and coming to stand before him instead of sitting in her high-backed chair opposite the table from him.

She looked down hesitantly at her tightly clasped, interlaced fingers before speaking and her cheeks slowly flushed pink.

“Jon…” she had to swallow before she could continue. “Jon, you have not come to me again…since…since our wedding night. I…it has been nearly a three-quarters of a moon’s turn. Did I not…was it no good?” she barely whispered.

Instantly he feels his brow furrow and he is unable to keep the pained expression from his face. He cannot forget that night: though she had insisted that she was ready for him, he cannot forget her reticence, her stiffness, how she bit her lip and looked away when he settled his body on hers though she wore her bedgown to cover herself and the only light came from glow of the full moon through the open shutters. It had been all wrong, and yet he had wanted her and he had taken her, despite the tense way she held her body that had made him hover over her, holding himself up with his elbow on the mattress and scarcely letting their bodies touch except where they were joined at the hips. Even so he had felt how soft and full her breasts were, how round and plump her behind and thighs felt compared to Ygritte’s hard and sinewy body. Sansa’s skin was soft, and she smelled sweet too. Her glorious hair was a silky fall: all loose and flowing around her head and the bolster.

 _Kissed by fire_ , he thought again; though in the darkness of her chamber it had looked a dark brown _._

He’d had already grown hard from the sight of her when he had slipped under the furs where she had waited in her bed in her chambers. There was something curiously exciting about being in Sansa’s chamber to bed her, he had never been inside her chamber as a boy; but he pushed that memory inside and remembered that she was his wife now. He had tried to please her, had tried kissing her lips, her face, her eyelids and her neck and throat; but she had only shook and caught her breath whenever he touched another part of her with his lips or hands.

“Sansa,” he had murmured, “Sansa, it’s alright-“

“Yes,” she had answered, too swiftly: a breathy exhale that would have excited him if only she had meant it.

He pulled back from her somewhat and looked at her. “Sansa…I have something: something that might make things…easier for you. It’s an oil made from the seeds of grapes. If I rub it onto my…self, it won’t hurt you so much, mayhaps not at all,” he offered encouragingly. The man Davos had given it to him: he had said that soldiers in the South used it to rub aches from sore muscles, but he’d also heard it could be used other things. He had been discreet, and kindly concerned for Sansa and for Jon after having seen Jon’s uncomfortable smile when some wildlings had made bawdy jests about their bedding.

But she had only pursed her lips and nodded; and so he had needed to think of Ygritte as he rubbed his cock with the oil to keep from losing his hardness. She had jumped to feel it against her leg and whimpered softly when he had touched his cock to her down there. No matter that he had tried to be gentle and that the oil had made it easier to enter her, still her body had tensed and her insides had clenched around him: a feeling that only served to heighten his own pleasure even as she was probably filled with fear and dread. He had closed his own eyes so as not to see how she was dutifully tolerating him, and likely praying for him to finish. He had thrust slowly, savouring the sensation of her tightness as he pulled his hips back and sank into her again, mayhaps only a dozen times before he spent himself weakly with a soft grunt and heavy exhale. She had exhaled as well, after he did, and he realized that she had been holding her breath.

“Rest now, Sansa,” he had told her as he pulled himself off her. She had nodded again and shifted to her side, away from him, and curled up with her arms around her slender body: the body he had just possessed without having possessed or even touched any part of her heart or mind. He had stared at the ceiling in the dark the rest of the night. He stole away at first light, after giving her a perfunctory kiss and tightly wrapping and tying his fur-trimmed robe. He scarcely felt married, or a king, or even happy. Again, he thought of Ygritte.

 _I need a lady in my hall and a wildling in my bed._ Then he shook his head to clear it, feeling that his thoughts betrayed Sansa: his wife and queen.

Well, he reflected wryly, at least they were truly married now: king and queen in the North

And now she was asking him if it was no good. Clearly, she had her own doubts as well.

“You were beautiful,” he tells her sincerely, “but… I thought I hurt you. I don’t want to hurt you, Sansa.”

In truth he wants her; he is ashamed at how much he wants her again but he cannot make himself go to her when she is not truly willing.

She nods thoughtfully now, and tears well up in her eyes.

I…I’m sorry, Jon…I tried not to think about…” She almost turns away from him but forces herself to take a deep breath and continue. “I didn’t want to remember anymore…now that he’s dead-”

He is on his feet instantly and he goes to her. He puts a gentle hand on her shoulder and one behind her head, to comfort her but also so that she will not turn away from him.

“I know, Sansa; I know. It’s alright.”

“No,” she blurts tearfully, “it isn’t alright or you would have come to me again.”

“Sh…hush, Sansa,” he kisses her forehead again and strokes her hair away from her face. “I’ll wait for you, Sansa. I’ll wait until you are ready.”

“But…I don’t know how to be ready, Jon. Was it not how it is supposed to be? I’m sorry, Jon, but I don’t know how…how it is supposed to be between us; I never…I don’t know how to make it right,” she nearly sobs.

He smiles ruefully at her. “It’s not for you to make it right, Sansa: that’s for me to do for you…and I want to do that for you…in time,” he reassures her.

She looks at him uncertainly now and then down at her hands again: a familiar gesture he has noticed by now, and he smiles faintly to see her rub one thumbnail with the other thumb before speaking again.

“How do you know; have you ever…been with another?” she asks hesitantly.

“Aye, only one: a wildling girl,” he confesses and she stares at him. “We were together beyond the wall. I don’t know if that was how it’s supposed to be either: no beds, no bedchambers, no walls even,” he jests to her but she only keeps staring and waiting. “She was older than me…a little, and she wasn’t a maid. That’s how I learned…from wildlings.” He leans his forehead to hers now. “I truly don’t mean to hurt you, Sansa.”

“I know, Jon; and you didn’t, not truly.” She is examining her thumb again. “Did you…did you love her?”

 _Everyone loves their first,_ he almost answers, and is horrified to think he could have said something so careless to her.

“I did, or…I felt like I did. I sometimes wished…” he remembers now.

“What did you wish, Jon?”

“That she could be a lady,” he confides to her, “that she would wear pretty gowns, and brush her hair and be soft and sweet.”

She smiles a tiny little smile. “That does not seem to me to be the wildling way,” she almost teases even as she presses her thumb down hard on her nail. There are still many wildlings in the castle, and though she is accepting and gracious with them, he wonders if they don’t frighten her. If they do, she has never shown it. She has only shown fear and doubt in their bed.

“No,” he replies simply, “it’s not: their life makes them hard.”

Her eyes meet his then and there is an understanding between them of how their lives have changed them, and brought them together this way. _We need to trust each other._

“I want to be a good wife, and a good queen,” she whispers but with a strength and conviction that he admires. She is strong; and he can help her find her strength. “I will try again, Jon,” she places her hand on his chest, so lightly that he can barely feel it through his tunic; but then she presses a little more and he can feel her resolve. Still, he is not sure that will be enough.

 _You need to be patient,_ Tormund had told him about Ygritte, _give her time_.  Jon was willing to give his wife time.

 “You are a good queen, Sansa: a wonderful queen. Everyone loves you; and you are better at understanding what the lords want and how to give it to them than I ever will be. And you’re a good wife, I promise you are. It has not been a moon’s turn yet, you said so yourself.” He sees that she is disappointed though, and so he relents somewhat.

“If I come to you, Sansa…will you let me just hold you? I would like to hold you.”

He should probably mind that she looks relieved, but mayhaps she is relieved that he has not given up on her. She nods once.

“Yes, Jon…I think I would like that as well.”

And she makes herself smile at him.

Jon feels the pain between his eyes again. “I have work to finish now,” he tells her levelly.

There is a knock then and whoever is there opens the heavy wood and iron door without awaiting a reply. Jon is irked to see that it is Littlefinger and his oily smirk and phoney pleasantries.

“Forgive me: am I interrupting our newlywed lovebirds?”

Sansa looks embarrassed by his over-familiarity and suggestive tone but Jon is firm with the man.

“Yes,” he states plainly. “The queen and I are having a private conversation.”

“Then I will leave you to finish your…business…your _grace_ ,” he manages to say before turning to Sansa  and places his hand over his heart; or rather the place Jon’s thinks his heart should be if he had one, and bows his head to her. “My queen,” he smiles ingratiatingly.

“Actually, she is _my_ queen, Lord Baelish,” Jon tells him lightly but with hard eyes.

Littlefinger starts at that, imperceptibly to anyone who is not looking for it; but to Jon it is obvious that the man does not like being outwitted, nor not having what he wants. Had Littlefinger not arrived with the knights of the Vale to turn to battle for Winterfell in their favour, Jon knows very well that he and his army would all be dead, as would Sansa who had promised to take her own life if their cause was lost rather than return to Bolton’s bastard; but he also knows that the man does not support him or his marriage to Sansa, and so he cannot trust him or rely on him as an ally. He is beginning to wonder what he and his knights are still doing in the North if that is the case.

But the tense moment is broken when Sansa steps slightly closer to Jon. She still had her hand flat against his chest and Jon instinctively places his own hand on top of hers.

“Thank you, Lord Baelish, for your courtesy,” she says with finality.

Littlefinger looks sharply between the two of them and bows his head again as he back s out of the solar.

“I know you don’t trust him,” Jon says quietly to Sansa as soon as he is gone. “Well, neither do I. We need to decide if it is safer for us to keep him here, or to have him leave. For your sake, Sansa, I wish he would leave.”

When her eyes meet his, this time her small smile is more genuine.


	3. Chapter 3

 

 

That night in the great hall is convivial. A fiddler has come from the winter town and a wildling plays a makeshift drum and some of the people in the castle dance after their meal is cleared away. Jon remains at the head table as Sansa circulates speaking with lords and commons alike, and his heart squeezes to see her admire a woman’s babe and gently kiss its small head at the woman’s urging. As the night wears on, she returns to sit next to him, and he picks up her hand to hold in his. Her arm is stiff at first, and she gives him one of those dutiful smiles but in time she seems to relax and her slender fingers are warm in his. When he thinks he spies Litterfinger staring at them out of the corner of his eye, Jon lifts Sansa’s hand to his lips to softly kiss the backs of her fingers. He needs supress a smile when he sees the man leave the hall immediately.

“Why are you laughing?” Sansa asks and Jon turns to see that she is watching him.

He shrugs and tries to think of an answer. “It’s just…strange: how things turned out: I was supposed to be a man of the Nights Watch and hold no lands, take no wife and- and-” he stumbles.

“Father no children,” Sansa finishes for him.

“Yes,” he replies simply. “And yet here I am in Winterfell, king of all the North with my queen by my side,” he sighs. “We still have battles to fight; and the Long Night is coming but I feel like I am fighting for my own life now, as well as everyone else; it’s not just duty anymore. I want to fight and win. I want my future and my life.”

When he sees that she is still looking at him, he squeezes her hand in his. “ _Our_ life,” he amends with a nod of encouragement.

Sansa drops her eyes and for an instant she almost seems shy. “Father,” she begins hesitantly, “father said that one day he would make a match for me, with someone worthy: someone brave and gentle and strong…”

He waits for her to say more but she does not, so he leans his head so that she will look at him again and speaks instead.

“I want to be all those things for you, Sansa. I promise you: I’ll try.”

It is a moment before she nods in acknowledgement of his words and so he squeezes her fingers again and brushes his thumb caressingly over the skin of the back of her hand.

“Shall I start now?” he murmurs to her, and she blinks in surprise. “Come,” he tells her as he stands from his seat. When she stands with him, the players stop their music and the dancers turn to look at them.

“Queen Sansa and I will retire. You all stay and enjoy the music and the dancing. But no more ale is to be brought up tonight,” he announces regretfully but firmly. “There’s much work to be done in Winterfell still.”

There are some grumblings until someone calls _King in the North,_ followed by _King and Queen in the North_ which makes Sansa bow her head in thanks for their loyalty. As they leave together, Jon notes that Littlefinger has not returned to the hall but he knows that he will surely hear the gossip of how the king and queen left the hall hand-in-hand.

Once they arrive at Sansa’s chamber, he opens the door for her but does not enter. Instead he leans close and puts his hand under her chin.

“Have your maid dress you in your bedgown. I’ll be back shortly,” he tells her then kisses her cheek gently. “I just want to hold you,” he reminds her in a whisper near her ear and he feels her nod before she steps back to go inside and close the door.

He walks quickly and awkwardly to his own chamber now. Being close to her has made him hard, and he will needs take himself in hand before returning to join her in her bed. He begins with slow strokes as he remembers Sansa’s sweet softness and her tight fit around his cock but he finishes thinking of Ygritte and her unashamed hunger for him. He washes up and finds a pair of linen breeches and a shirt to don under his fur robe. _Your grace,_ soldiers say solemnly as he passes them in the halls back to Sansa’s chamber, and he nods pleasantly to each one and says goodnight.

_Let them see. Let them see and let them talk. It can only help if they believe we have a real marriage._

Still he knocks before he lets himself in. Sansa’s maid has brushed her hair, or mayhaps she has done it herself; but the gleaming fall over one shoulder that reaches almost down to her waist is enough to take his breath away, as is the swell of her full breasts and bottom beneath the loose bedgown. There is only a single candle on her dressing table, and its light casts shadows that leave little to his imagination. He clears his throat loudly now.

“Ready for bed then? I’m tired myself so…I hope you don’t mind if I settle in,” he announces as he moves to pull back the furs on the far side of the bed. In truth he would rather carry her to the bed and lie on top of her but he has promised, and he will not break his word to her. Besides, she watches him from the distance of her dressing table, smoothing her hair down so that the fall covers her breasts, until finally she picks up her candle holder and carries it to her side of the bed. He turns down the furs on her side and lies back to wait for her. He closes his eyes and feels the bed dip as she climbs in next to him. He feels no other movement for a moment, and then he feels her slide over closer to him.

Jon turns to her now and reaches to finger a strand of her hair and tuck in back over her shoulder.

“Shall I hold you then?” His voice comes out huskier than he intended, but Sansa nods and turns to blow out the candle end before settling back against his side. Jon reaches his arms around her and shifts so that he is facing her. Sansa curls up in his embrace with her hands together under her chin. Her knees are drawn up slightly, so that he cannot get too close. He is not especially comfortable this way but he will let her do as she must to learn to trust him with her body in her bed.

 _I needs give her time_ , he reminds himself again. Instead he listens to the far-off music from the hall as it drifts up from the across the yard through the shuttered window.

“Everyone was having a good time in the hall,” Sansa remarks quietly now.

“Aye,” he agrees, “you didn’t dance though.”

“You didn’t ask me to dance,” she points out without rancour.

Jon huffs a short laugh. “I never could dance proper, Sansa, much less dance as well as you: you were always better than all the ladies in the hall.” He feels her raise her head to look at him. “Besides, you don’t need my leave to dance: you’re a queen and you should dance if you like.”

“Even with Littlefinger?” she asks dryly.

He hesitates briefly. “Why? Did he ask you to dance?”

“No.” Spoken with resignation.

“Do you want him to?”

“No.” He is relieved that her reply is more emphatic now.

“Sansa, if he’s bothering you…” he begins firmly.

“What?”

“He has a place in the Eyrie; and a seat at Harrenhal: he doesn’t have to stay here,” Jon points out.

“He has backed us in retaking Winterfell,” Sansa reminds him, as though he could forget. “It’s not safe for him to go back South.”

“If he bothers you, it won’t be safe for him to stay in the North,” Jon states with bitterness in his voice. To his surprise, Sansa giggles at that.

“I would like to see his face if that ever happens. He is pretty sure of himself. He is always thinking and planning ahead.”

“I don’t like the way he looks at you,” Jon says tightly.

“You sound jealous,” Sansa teases but with a note of surprise in her tone.

“I don’t trust him. You said yourself he is trying to undermine me, and use you. I-”

“I don’t want to talk about him in our bed,” Sansa interrupts him. “Forgive me,” she says apologetically, “I just…don’t.”

Jon curses himself for having brought the man and politics to bed with her, and so he moves to kiss her forehead and hold her closer for a moment.

“I’m sorry, Sansa: you’re right: it should only be the two of us here.”

“Hm,” she acknowledges, and she shifts away from him slightly and Jon knows it is because he has grown hard again.

“Sorry about that,” he tells her. “I can’t seem to help it; but I can help what I do about it. I’ll go back to my chambers.”

“N-no,” she replies, “but maybe if I moved-”

“I’ll turn away,” he offers resolutely and changes position so that his back is to her. In a moment she speaks to him.

“Does it not…does it hurt you…not to do anything about it?”

Jon lifts his eyebrows in the dark. “It’s uncomfortable,” he confesses carefully, “and hard not to think about, but…it doesn’t need a woman to relieve it. It will go away in time.”

“Is it-” she hesitates.

“Is it what?”

“Is it something I do… to make it happen?”

He lifts his head and turns it towards her. “You didn’t do anything, Sansa; it can happen on its own,” he tells her. “But it does happen when I’m close to you.”

“Oh,” she replies and he senses her confusion. Did Bolton’s bastard tell her what he did to her was all her fault? He wants to reassure her.

“You’re beautiful to look at, Sansa; and you’re sweet and warm and soft to be near. Like I said, I can’t help how my…my body reacts, only how I react.”

“You mean you can keep yourself from-”

“Every man can, Sansa,” he tells her firmly, “just as he can stop himself from stealing, or murdering.”

“Cersei once told me: ‘When a man’s blood is up anything with tits looks good.’”

“Did you just say _tits_?” Jon remarks with astonishment.

Sansa sits up and leans over him. “Surely you’ve heard the word before, Jon.”

“Aye, but I never expected to hear it from _you_!” He starts to laugh; he can’t help it. Soon Sansa is laughing too.

“Well,” she persists, “was she wrong?”

Jon stops laughing now and sighs. He knows that Cersei of not wrong about this.

“No, I’m afraid not. That doesn’t mean they can’t help it; it just means it’s harder. But some men never do…that.” He is thinking of Lord Eddard, and Lord Commander Mormont, and Stannis Baratheon; and he thinks of Sam.

“I thought men of the Night’s Watch weren’t supposed to-” she begins.

“There was a brothel…in Mole’s Town: some of the men went there,” he thinks after all that she has been through, and if she can say _tits_ , she won’t be offended by talk of a brothel. “The vows are to take no wife. Some men figured bedding women in brothels wasn’t the same thing. I never went there.”

“You didn’t go to the winter town brothel either,” she remembers. “Well, you went there but-”

He turns over on his back and looks up at her in the dark. “How do you know about that?”

“I overheard… Servants talk, Jon; especially about the Lord’s family,” she trails off. “Why didn’t you?”

Jon rolls back onto his side and faces away from her. “I didn’t want to give them bastards,” he states bitterly. He thinks of Ygritte again, and wonders why he never thought about bastards after their time in the cave. He had left her when she could have been with child. No wonder she had wanted to kill him.

He comes back to the present with a start to realize that Sansa has curled up behind him and is sliding her hand around his waist and up to his chest. He feels her rest her cheek against his back.

“Good night, Jon,” she whispers to him.

“Good night, Sansa,” he replies without thinking. When he does think, he puts his hand over hers before shutting his eyes.

…….

Bright sunlight is piercing through the cracks in the shutters, and Jon knows immediately it will be a very cold day. He turns his head to see the empty space beside him and when he lifts his head he sees that Sansa’s robe is no longer draped over the chair of her dressing table.

 _I hope she slept well,_ he thinks to himself and hopes she did not leave his side in the middle of the night. He rises and feels about for his own robe and walks to the door of the chamber. When he looks back before leaving, he sees clearly the rumpled but clean bedlinens will betray their secret.

_Servants talk, Jon; especially about the Lord’s family._

Before midday, the entire castle is like to know the King in the North is not bedding his queen.

“Seven hells,” he swears. He yanks the door open hard, and then slams it behind him.


	4. Chapter 4

 

 

There is a knock at his door as he is dressing.

“Come in,” he calls curtly.

It’s Sansa’s maid, and she is carrying a tray of fried bread and boiled eggs.

“Pardons, your grace, but Lady- _Queen_ Sansa told me to bring this tray to break your fast when she found you’d left her bed…I mean, her chambers this mornin’.”

Jon pauses a moment, and he realizes why she got up early now.

“Please thank Queen Sansa for her thoughtfulness…and tell her I needed rise early to train this morning.” The girl nods and leaves, and Jon finishes dressing hastily and then adds a padded leather doublet over top and picks up Longclaw in its scabbard. Having said he was going to train, he needs do so. But he decides to stop at Sansa’s chambers on his way.

He finds her in her robe, with her maid in attendance. Jon asks to speak with his wife alone.

“Thank you for sending the tray around,” he tells her. “If I had known you had gone to the kitchens-”

“It’s alright,” she replies before he can finish. She is clutching her robe tight to her throat.

“Did you sleep well…with me here?”

She softens somewhat now. “Yes, Jon. Yes, I did. Did you sleep well?”

“Aye, I’m well-rested, thanks…got to train now though.”

“Yes,” she agrees, “and I have to get dressed.” She looks around at her spare wardrobe, with only a few gowns on hooks, and looks embarrassed.

“I like the one with the wolf bit,” he reminds her, “but you should have more…as many as you’d like,” he pronounces grandly and feels idiotic for having done so when he sees her suppress a smile.

“Thank you, Jon,” she says simply; and he nods again and awkwardly backs out of her chamber, banging Longclaw against the doorframe as he leaves.

He fights with determined ferocity in the yard, and takes on all comers. He has not felt that he has so much to prove since he joined the Nights Watch. Eventually Tormund throws a friendly arm over his shoulder and drags him away.

“Your sword’s not your pecker, Jon Snow, you can’t make up for it in the yard: you’ll kill men and we need all we have.”

He looks up at the man in a fury but remembers that this is his friend.

“He- he hurt her, Tormund.”

“I know,” the gruff wildling answers him. “Why else would she have run away from this place? It’s her home…and yours.”

Jon stares at him now. “I never meant to be a king, you know,” he tells the man apologetically. “It all belongs to her, really.”

“Now she belongs to you…and you belong to her: you said so before the old gods. You kept your word to the Nights Watch. You kept your word to the free folk. Now you needs keep your word to the gods…and to your wife.”

Jon nods solemnly. “I want to protect her…but how do I protect her from bad memories? Every time I touch her, she thinks of _him_ …and what he did to her.”

He shakes his great rust-coloured head and beard sadly. “I’m sorry, Jon. But I think if any man can help her heal, it’s you.”

“Why? Why do you think that?”

The great wildling slaps him on the shoulder and smiles ruefully. “Because you _want_ to.”

…….

He sees her later, crossing the yard but when she looks over her shoulder and sees him she smiles. It seems a genuine smile, though it is contained and fleeting; still it makes him feel encouraged after the trying morning.

Then he sees her crossing the walkway between the keep and the armoury, where Littlefinger steps out of shadows to stand in her way. She holds herself stiffly, and that is enough for Jon to race into the armoury and up to the walkway himself.

“Ghost, to me,” he calls as he does, and the silent direwolf follows on his heels and then past him to stand alert next to Sansa. Littlefinger turns and watches him approach almost warily.

“Your wolf protects your queen, I see,” he says without humour.

“Aye", Jon replies firmly, “and so do I. What do you want, Lord Baelish?”

“I wanted to bring Queen Sansa the good news myself,” he announces pompously with an oily smirk, “I received a raven from the castellan at Harrenhal…it seems Lord Frey is dead.”

“Walder Frey?’ Jon glances at Sansa but she is looking down at her clasped hands. He ponders this information, but can think of no reply. He should be overjoyed to hear the treacherous old man is dead; but he can only think now of Robb, and the betrayal that killed him.

“Would you excuse us, please? I’d like to speak with Sansa,” he asks quietly.

“Of course,” Littlefinger replies in a tone that could be interpreted thousand ways. He gives Sansa a significant look before sweeping away along the walkway and back into the keep.

“Are you alright?” he asks Sansa.

She nods curtly and thinks before speaking. “Littlefinger says that the Freys will fights amongst themselves to take their father’s place, and so we may have the chance to take back the Riverrun and the Riverlands,” she tells him cautiously.

Jon considers this. “Well, he is Lord of Harrenhal; and he has the knights of the Vale as his command.”

“He wants me to go with him,” she tells him abruptly. “He thinks that, as a Tully, I can rally the River lords to support us as they supported Robb.”

Jon stares in astonishment. “It’s hard not to think of Robb…with Walder Frey dead; hard not to think of how he was betrayed. I don’t want you to go, Sansa: I don’t want you to go where I can’t watch over you. But…if you want to go-”

“The last time I let Littlefinger take me anywhere, I ended up being given to the family that murdered Robb. Do you think me such a fool, Jon?”

Despite the flat harshness of her words to him, Jon cannot help being relieved that she will not leave him.

“I don’t think you a fool at all, Sansa. I was going to say if you wanted to go, I will keep Littlefinger here on some pretext, and send some of our own men with you…but I would prefer you stay.”

“He would like to keep us apart,” she notes, “and he would rather I was with him; but I don’t trust him alone with you either. There has to be another way.”

Jon nods. “Let me consult with Davos,” he tells her and sees that she stiffens at being excluded. “Meanwhile, are there any knights of the Vale you can talk to: one that might know how Littlefinger convinced them to fight for us? They would be more likely to confide in you, Sansa; and if we know how he rallied them, we may be able to do so again. We needs work together,” he insists, “it's the best way to keep him from coming between us.”

Sansa pauses a moment while looking at him levelly and then takes a deep breath. “I will meet you in the solar at midday. Bring Ser Davos and your friend Tormund; I know that we can trust them.”

When she turns from him he watches her leave.

“Take Ghost with you,” he calls after her. “Ghost, go with her,” he prompts and the direwolf follows. Sansa reaches to ruffle his fur as he pads silently along beside her.

…….

It is before supper in the hall that they call the attending lords, and Lady Mormont, together. Jon stands and addresses them.

“Lord Baelish has informed us that Walder Frey, who broke guest rights and murdered King Robb, Lady Catelyn and many of the sons and soldiers of the lords gathered here, is dead. We do not know how: we can only hope it was slow and painful; and not peacefully in his sleep,” he comments and the lords laugh bitterly. “Mayhaps one of his sons killed him: for those who would break guest rights cannot be too far from kinslaying. We cannot even yet be sure that it is true and not a trap to try to lure us into feeling safe…or even reckless, and making us turn our attentions South to the Riverlands when we still need to secure the North.”

General muttering and a chorus of _ayes_ follow his measured words; and he looks pointedly to Littlefinger before continuing.

“Queen Sansa is a Tully on her lady mother’s side, and sister to King Robb. She will send messages to some of the River lords to try to learn the truth, as well as gage what support, if any, we may hope to expect from them. In the meantime, we needs send parties to the Dreadfort and to the Last Hearth, to root out the last of any traitors and demand fealty to House Stark in Winterfell. The Long Night will descent from the North…we will needs the _entire_ North behind us, my lords and lady.”

“Forgive me, your grace,” Littlefinger speaks now. “But it seems to me your greatest threat is from the South: the Lannisters still rule in Kings Landing, and they will doubtless turn their attention North after having secured Riverrun for House Frey, since the Blackfish has failed to keep it. Lord Edmure is not like to live long since his Frey wife has given him a son and heir and he has outlived his usefulness,” he smirks. “We needs address real threats; not these snarks and grumpkins our mothers used to try and scare us into eating our vegetables. And I am sure that Queen Sansa is anxious to regain her lady mother’s ancestral home,” he says now.

Sansa rises slowly and gracefully. “We are grateful that the knights of the Vale came to our aid when they were told that I was abducted by the Boltons,” she says as she stares the man down. “However even with your numbers we have not enough men to invade the Riverlands; but we do have enough to keep them from marching North through the Neck. For now, we will rely on our natural defenses to fortify the North. Lord Baelish,” she continues coldly, “as Lord of Harrenhal, we expect that you will use such influence as you may have with the River lords to support our cause at Riverrun. You and a party of your knights will accompany Lord Manderly back to White Harbor and sail on one of his ships to the Vale. Once the support of the River lords is secured, your remaining soldiers there will proceed to lead them to your seat at Harrenhal and against the remaining Lannister forces.”

Jon watches his reaction and sees the man’s oily smile falter. He was sickened to learn that Littlefinger had claimed the Boltons had abducted her from him and forced her to marry the bastard. The man’s duplicitousness knew no bounds; and he had clearly used Sansa for his own purposes without regard to her safety. Jon still wanted his head, but Sansa has arranged to have him leave and hopefully to face the consequences of his actions elsewhere, either by the knights of the Vale, who would learn of his duplicity; or mayhaps even at the hands of the Lannisters if he were captured.

“But what if he doesn’t return there?” Ser Davos had asked her.

“Where else can he go?” Sansa had countered. “He can’t stay here in the North if his own knights are escorting him to White Harbor. He can only stay in the Vale if the River lords don’t support us, at which time we can reveal to the knights who remain in the North that he lied about me,” she huffs. “He told me that he brought me home to get revenge; but he was selling me for his own reasons.”

The man Davos had tilted his head curiously. “What are those reasons?”

Sansa replied: “He told me that he didn’t make any move unless it furthered his ambition to sit on the Iron throne…with me by his side; but he made it look like I was party to killing Joffrey, and he left me alone without protection with the Boltons. I’m not what he wants; I’m just someone...some _thing_ he is using to get what he wants.”

“We won’t let that happen again,” Tormond had stated plainly. “But you’ll be safer without him here. If these Lannisters think you killed their king, there’ll be a price on your head; and he’s sold you out before,” he warns direly.

“And he would again, if he thought it would save himself,” Sansa confirms.

Now in the hall, Jon sees Littlefinger struggling with the realization that he has lost Sansa: that he will be made to leave the North without having secured her to his cause or betrayed her for it. 

“I am pleased to serve you, my queen,” Littlefnger says tightly.

“Good,” is all that Sansa deigns to reply. “You and a party of your knights will leave on the morrow. Your grace,” she turns to Jon and yields him leave to speak again.

Littlefinger stares at her throughout supper, but Sansa does not leave Jon’s side and so the man has no chance to speak with her. When the fiddler starts, Sansa slips her hand in Jon’s beneath the table: the lightest touch with their fingertips barely entwined. Once the tune has ended, he raises both his hands to applaud but then picks her hand up again and hold it firmly in his.

“Shall I come to you again?” he asks his queen when the music begins again.

She looks at him and drops her eyes, almost shy.

“Yes, Jon. I-,” she hesitates a moment. “Yes.”


	5. Chapter 5

 

They leave the hall hand-in-hand, and Jon is content that Sansa does not look back at Littlefinger. He is behind her now, soon to be forgotten he hopes, and so he is behind them both: one less reminder of her frightful ordeal. Jon knows it is only a small start, but it is a start nonetheless.

He leaves her at the door of her chambers again, though Ghost stands sentinel outside waiting for his return when he has changed into bedclothes and a fur robe. He realizes that he has forgotten to take himself in hand so that he can more comfortably lie next to her without showing his want, but then he remembers that it hadn’t much helped the previous night. When he lets himself in he sees her standing near the hearth in her bedgown with the light from the glowing fire shining through the thin cloth. He stands stock-still though Ghost pads in and sits at her feet, as attentive as a sworn shield. He almost excuses himself when he feels the strong pull of desire in his own body, but then he notes her quizzical brow.

“Is there something bothering you, Sansa?” he asks concernedly.

She shakes her head faintly but then decides to speak.

“I’m sorry, Jon, but I cannot help wondering if I can expect any support from the River lords,” she confides. “I keep remembering what Lord Glover said about Robb…about how he left the North and got himself killed and left those who remained to suffer under the Ironborn,” she murmurs softly, “I wonder if they will be willing to fight for me if I am not there with them.”

“We’ll be sending the knights of the Vale to fight alongside them, Sansa. You know how dangerous it could be for you to go South again,” he cannot help reminding her, “especially with Littlefinger. He sold you to the Boltons; he could sell you back to the Lannisters if he thought it would further his ambition. The whole war started because they executed your father: he might hope that it will start up again if they executed you. We have to save our strength for the Long Night-“

“The houses in the Riverlands will have made peace and fledged their fealty to King Tommen to retain their lands and titles. They won’t take that lightly, any more than Lord Glover did towards the Boltons who fought to regain his family’s castle,” she worries. “Even my uncle did not want to risk losing his home to fight for us.”

“Aye,” Jon relents, “everyone’s tired of fighting; I’m tired of fighting too. But we won’t be given a choice soon; we’ll have to fight or die…all of us.” He reaches his hand to hold the back of her head and leans his forehead to hers. “We have to try, Sansa; and you are our best hope. These are the decisions and risks that we will have to take if we are to be king and queen…are you with me?”

Sansa seems to think a moment and then nods slowly. “Jon?”

“Yes, Sansa?”

“I like how you say _we,"_  she tells him with a small smile.

He feels himself smile as well. “I like saying _we_ ,” he murmurs gently. “So…shall _we_ go to bed now?”

She snorts a laugh and nods again and he lets her go, though he likes the feel of her soft hair under his hand. He walks around to the far side of the bed and removes his robe before getting under the furs. Sansa leaves Ghost’s side as the direwolf curls up on the hearth rug, and she stands by her side of the big bed and self-consciously unbraids her thick hair as he watches.

“What is it?” she asks.

He twists his mouth wryly and gives his head a quick shake. “I’m going to need to turn away from you again,” he tells her. “Is that alright?”

She lowers her hands slowly and her glorious hair falls about her shoulders in the firelight. Her smile fades somewhat though. “It is,” she tells him finally.

Jon turns onto his side and feels her slide in next to him. After a moment she curls up behind his body, just like the first time and he feels her tentative hands against his back sliding around his waist as she rests her cheek between his shoulders.

“Comfortable?” he asks her, for want of anything to say.

“Yes, are you? You said that it is uncomfortable-”

“It’ll go away,” he insists brusquely.

“Hm,” she breathes softly, “can I help?”

Before he can understand her words, Jon feels her hand begin to slip from his waist down towards his hardness.

“What? Sansa…no…you don’t have to-”

“I don’t mind,” she whispers. “Unless you want me to stop?”

He shuts his eyes tightly, hoping that it will help him concentrate and give him strength but her touch is so gentle over the soft linen of the light breeches he was worn that he can think of nothing else.

“Jon?”

“Don’t stop,” he says in a breathy rush. “Don’t stop unless you want to,” he amends.

“I want to try…please, Jon.”

“Hmph,” he manages with a quick nod as the tips of her fingers brush over the tip of his cock, now strained to a turgid hardness that is making him bite his lip to still his hands from reaching for her. She goes on like this with her soft touch, delicately tracing the outline of his member through the fabric until she slides her hand back to his waist and he feel her palm against the skin of his belly and he sucks his breath in noisily.

“Is this alright?” she asks anxiously.

“It’s wonderful, Sansa,” he murmurs huskily. “You’re doing everything right.”

He can’t imagine how anything she could do would be wrong but still his words seem to have the right effect, he thinks, as she follows the ridges in his abdomen with a feather-light touch until she fumbles slightly and tugs on the cord of his breeches. Jon’s eye suddenly open wide in the dimness and he feels the heavy rise and fall of his chest as his breathing quickens in anticipation of her hand on his-

“Aahh…ugh.” He cannot help himself crying out to feel her soft touch on his now throbbing cock but his noises make her stiffen against his back.

“Was that…bad?”

“ _No_! No,’ he blurts emphatically. “It’s good…gods, it’s so good, Sansa. Do you want to stop?” He cannot help asking because he has startled her, mayhaps frightened her. _Did that bastard grunt hard when he had her, like he was stabbing with dagger thrusts meant to kill?_

“You like this?” she questions curiously.

“Your touch, Sansa…it’s so gentle: a real woman’s touch,” he tells her in a tight voice because he is restraining himself with all his might to stay still and let her do as she please when he is dying to touch her, to press into her and feel her warm body under his. He wants his hand in Sansa’s hair, his lips on Sansa’s mouth and Sansa’s throat and Sansa’s soft shoulders; he wants to feel Sansa’s firm breasts against his chest and the soft skin of Sansa’s thighs over his hips when he wraps Sansa’s long legs around him and sinks into Sansa over and over and-

“Sansa, Sansa,” he hears himself calling softly now. She stroking him more firmly and taking his shaft in her silky grip. “Gods, Sansa…can I touch you, Sansa? I won’t move, I promise.”

When she makes an indeterminate sound, he reaches behind him until his hand touches her thigh over her bedgown. He strokes her limb in rhythm to her strokes of his cock until he lifts her leg up over his hip. When she does not flinch or even hesitate, he begins to caress her until he feels warm skin beneath his hand. Her bedgown has slipped up her thigh, and though it flashes in his mind to stop he is so taken with the softness of her that he continues to stroke and gently knead her with his hand.

“That’s it, that’s so good, Sansa…gods, I’m so close now, almost…” He is about to spurt, his balls have tightened up so close to his body and he will cry out in pleasure, he knows; and as he is about to he reaches further up the back of Sansa’s thigh to her full, firm bottom and grips it in ecstasy and she jumps, she cries out but it’s pain not pleasure and he has peaked at just that moment and he spills his seed all over her hand as she pulls it away from him and pulls herself away from him and he has done something terribly, horribly, terribly wrong, he knows but he can’t stop now and so he groans his completion and gasps for breath as his cock throbs and empties onto the sheets and finally subsides and he is able, just barely, to catch his breath and turn to her now.

“Sansa,” he pants as he reaches to comfort her, but she is gripping the furs high, right up to her chin and she is shaking and her eyes are full of tears and he wants to run himself through with his own bloody sword because he hurt her and he never wanted to hurt her. _Oh seven hells!_

“Gods, I’m so sorry, Sansa…I’m sorry,” he gasps and almost sobs. “I promised you I wouldn’t hurt you and I _did_. I told you I would stop and I didn’t. Please, Sansa, please forgive me: I never want to hurt you _ever_.”

Ghost has raised his head from the hearth rug and is watching her intently. Then the direwolf comes to sit by her side of the bed and whines and nudges her arm.

“See, even Ghost doesn’t want me to hurt you, do you. boy,” he hopes she will relent somewhat and forgive him but she is sniffling and will not look at him still.

“I…I’m sorry, Jon,” she whispers finally.

“What? No. You’ve nothing to be sorry about, Sansa,” he insists and he almost reaches to comfort her but stops himself in time. “It was me. I shouldn’t have touched you there without asking. I- I should have known it would upset you to grab you like that. It’s my fault: I didn’t think about you. Please, I’m sorry.”

When she doesn’t answer, he is helpless. He knows all he can do is leave her.

“I’ll go now, but…let me call your maid; I don’t want you to be alone now.”

“No!” she cries so suddenly that he is startled and confused. “No, please, Jon: stay with me…please stay.”

He furrows his brow in pain for her. She is weeping silently, with only soft little sniffles but when he peers hard in the dimness he can see her eyes are reddened and her face is puffy. “Why? Why would you want me to stay after what I did? I hurt you, Sansa. I can’t stay in your bed now.”

She shakes her head now and catches her breath from crying. “ _Please_ don’t leave me, Jon.”

He thinks he understands now: it’s her memories that frighten her, as least more than he does. He will not leave her now, not if she needs him; and he tells her so.

“I’ll stay with you then,” he states firmly. “I won’t touch you again, I swear.”

But that seems to make her cry more. “He’s ruined _everything_ for me,” she whispers finally, “and for us.”

Jon’s guts tighten up and he clenches his jaw so hard his teeth grind together, and he is certain that he is growling like Ghost.

“No,” Jon insists. “He’s dead, Sansa: he’ll never hurt you again. You’re alive, and safe, and home. It’s _our_ home now; it’s always been our home…. I’ll do whatever it takes; I’ll wait however long it takes for you to feel safe here, with me. I know you have bad memories, terrible bad memories…but they’ll go away…in time...you’ll see. We’ll make new memories, just us…and with everyone here: good memories, happy ones…I _promise._ ”

Jon is leaning forward intently, willing her to believe him but knowing that he has already failed her this night. He had grabbed her ass like a green boy and hurt her; worse, he made her think of _him_ …the other bastard.

Sansa’s sniffling quieted and after a long moment she spoke: “He said I couldn’t kill him, that he was a part of me now.”

Jon shakes his head stubbornly. “No. I won’t let that happen. He’s dead and gone and you’ll forget him. You’ll be safe and happy and never have to be afraid again.”

She breathes out and tilts her head slightly, though she does not look at him.

“You really mean that, don’t you? You believe that,” she speaks so softly.

“I do. I _have_ to, for your sake, Sansa: I have to believe that you’ll be happy again. I’m sorry…I’m sorry if this marriage was not right for you, I told you that from the start; but we can’t go back now…only forward…together.”

She looks down to where he had reached to put his hand on her leg on top of the furs, and she slowly pulls her slender arm out from beneath the covers and lays her hand over his and takes it in hers to hold tightly.

“You’re right,” she nods resolutely, “we have to go forward…and there is something I must do before I can do that, Jon.” She slips out from beneath the furs now and stands before him with her arms crossed over her body but one hand toying with the cord of her bedgown. “I tried to show you before…what he did to me,” she tells him. “I need to do this, Jon; I need you to see…to understand…”

Jon hedges and looks at her cautiously. “No, you don’t; you don’t need to do this, Sansa; I-”

“Yes, I do,” she states firmly, “and so do you.”

With a grim mouth and determined eyes that hold his steadily, she pulls the cord holding the gathered neck of her bedgown and lets it slide from her shoulders and slip gracefully down the length of her long body before it pools at her feet and she stand naked before him in the firelight.

And Jon can only stare.

 

 

 


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sketch that illustrates this chapter also inspired this fic. It is by galack-hs on tumblr. Thank you for letting me use your work.
> 
> This chapter describes Sansa's wounds and some of the physical abuse she may have suffered at the hands of Ramsay Bolton.

 

Jon’s breath leaves him entirely and his mouth hangs slack and open as he stares transfixed at Sansa’s body. He passes a shaky hand over his face, as though wishing to stop seeing, and mayhaps see anew and realize that he is wrong, that his eyes must be deceiving him and this cannot be as it is.

Her long and slender body is more than lovely; it is heart-stopping for reasons both good and ill. Her long neck and gently rounded shoulders seem unmarred; but her arms and torso are badly bruised, even though moons have passed since she fled her cursed marriage. The outline of strong fingers that held her arms and hips and thighs in a merciless grip are unmistakable despite the faded yellowy-green marks; but it is the large and dark bruises from blows, the hard and forceful imprints of closed fists that bloom on her flesh like the purple cabbages from the Reach that once grew in the glass garden, that take his breath away, even as they fill him with a confounded disbelief and a boiling, blinding rage. Her full, firm breasts bear vicious bite marks that have turned deep red, and he can sense her resist covering herself when she sees his eyes stare at them. Instead she lowers her head and turns slightly; and Jon can see the blue stripes across her side. The lashing must have been done with a riding crop for certainly a whip would have broken the pale delicate skin and a stick or rod would have broken her ribs. When she turns fully, his stunned silence is broken by his cry of anguish and horror, and he must choke back uttering a filthy curse at the sight.

 _“Our blades are sharp” were their house words_ , Jon remembers. _Oh, you utter bloody bastard…_

He creeps closer to the edge of the bed, for as horrified as he is he must see it to believe it. The bastard has cut her. He has scored large Xs on her back over her shoulder blades and beneath and on her beautiful, rounded ass: a gross, possessive rendering of his house sigil of a flayed man strapped upside-down on a cross repeatedly carved into her body. The cuts are painful even to look at: etched with a fine blade, like a razor, and precisely done; he must have taken his time to get them just right, and enjoyed her fear and pain as he dragged his knife to split her milky skin. The Xs are raw and scabbed, cut into her where they would be most difficult to heal. Her every movement would have stretched apart the edges of her sliced flesh; and he cannot image the agony of having her own weight on them and having them rubbed raw when she was laid out on her back every night.

“Sansa…” is all he can say because he can scarcely breathe much less speak. He has never truly been able to take the time to mourn Lord Eddard, who had been as a father to him, nor Robb or even Ygritte; but at this moment it is Sansa for whom he mourns, for the violent death of her innocence, the rape of her body and soul, and complete loss of her trust and happiness and belief in everything that was beautiful and good that made her who she was as a girl. That girl is gone: they killed her, and left him this woman who stands before him bearing the scars of their brute, horrible selves who hated her for being soft and beautiful and high-born: the first-born daughter of Lord Eddard Stark. He cannot understand why they, why anyone should want to destroy her so completely: to inflict this humiliating and nigh-unbearable pain and suffering and watch her bleed. Why not just bloody kill her and be done with it, as they did to him? But she is a woman, a girl really; and she can be used: for her body and to make heirs, and so to grant legitimacy to a line and to lay claim to a castle and its lands.

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, and when he does the tears from his grief and her pain are overwhelming. He tries to stand but finds himself slipping on his knees before her. He tries to reach for her, to touch one of the scars or a bruise to comfort her, to heal, to somehow make it all go away but he knows that cannot be possible now. It is too late. He is too late.

She has turned back to him now and he looks up at her in lost supplication. “I’m sorry, Sansa…I’m so sorry…I-”

When he bows his head like a penitent, she reaches a soft hand to brush away the hair that has fallen into his eyes and with that tender gesture from her he is undone. He reaches both arms around her and pulls her to him, resting his head between her breasts and weeping like a small boy. His shoulders shake and hot tears slide down his cheeks, and still he pleads in hoarse whispers: “I’m so sorry, Sansa…I’m… _gods_ …I’m so sorry…”

He feels a warm hand slide down his back and up again; and the hand she had slipped into his thick hair is joined by the other now as she cradles him and bends over him with her long hair brushing lightly over his shoulders. He hears her own sniffles and gasps for breath until she lays her cheek on top of his head. They are holding each other now, bound in suffering and loss and grief that must be felt, truly felt if they are to continue together. They have been strong thus far; and Jon realizes fleetingly but surely that she is stronger than anyone he knows. She has faced pain and violation day after day with the knowledge that it would only become worse and she has survived. She has survived and become stronger; whereas some men he knows would be broken. He murmurs into her skin now:

“You’re strong, Sansa; gods but you’re strong. You’ll heal, and be even stronger…I promise, Sansa.”

 

_galack-hs_

…….

 

 

The light from the hearth fire and the candle on the window ledge still throw deep shadows over the walls and ceiling, but it feels to Jon like the darkest shadow that fell between them has gone.

He can hold her in his arms, as he is doing now: he is holding her closely and gently against him in their bed and she is warm and naked and without fear or hesitation. When he carried her back to their bed, he drew her close and caressed her body gently, passing his hands over her bruises and his fingertips over her scarred breasts and back and bottom and she did not flinch, or move away, or even look away. She gazed at him surely and sometimes rubbed her own hand over his arms or neck or face. They curled up so closely that they twined their limbs together and they ended by simply holding hands with their fingers slipped between the others. Sansa turned their hands this way and that, holding them aloft in the flickering light and saying nothing; she simply let herself accept this closeness and trust that he has wanted between them. When next she looks him in the eye, he broaches the subject he wants to discuss with her.

“Sansa?”

“Hm?”

“Have you…did a maester ever see to your wounds?”

Her mouth sets grimly. “No,” she answers dully. “No part of me but those that could give him sons mattered.”

“Will you let me bring you one? Not the Bolton’s man; Lady Lyanna’s maester. He seems trustworthy. I want you to heal, Sansa. I think you can heal much better with some care: salves or bandages even on- on…”

“On the cuts,” she finishes for him evenly.

“Aye…they aren’t too deep but they’ve split open too many times to heal right,” he fumbles to tell her.

She looks into the distance now before replying. “I’ll have the scars the rest of my life, Jon. I- I hope they are not too ugly…but I also know that they must be.”

“You’re beautiful, Sansa,” he insists. “Nothing can change that about you: nothing…and no one.”

She drops her eyes again, and he thinks she turns pink in the weak firelight but he is not certain.

“Did a maester see to your scars, Jon?”

Jon’s mouth and belly tighten to think of it. “My scars…my wounds…” he begins. “I was dead. I should be dead. No maester can fix that,” he tells her grimly.

Her hand caresses his body softly again. “You have your own bad memories,” she observes quietly.

“Aye…that’s behind me now, I hope. I’ve left the Night’s Watch; though I imagine plenty of kings have been murdered,” he observes humourlessly, and he turns his eyes to her when he feels her press her hands more firmly on him.

“You…you have bad memories of Winterfell as well,” she ventures quietly, “My mother…and myself even: we didn’t- You didn’t want to give the women at the brothel bastards. It must have hurt you many times, if not all the time, to be here and not be a part of things.”

“Lady Stark thought her husband had betrayed her, and brought his bastard home to raise with his true-born children,” he recites the words tightly but cannot keep the bitterness from his voice. “I told you: there’s nothing to forgive.”

“You sat in the back of the hall at feasts; you weren’t even at the feast for King Robert… I wear her clothes now: is that why you want me to have new ones?”

He stares up at the ceiling as he replies. “She was your mother…you should have her things. They suit you. I know you like pretty clothes; I only want you to be happy, Sansa.”

She settles her auburn head on his shoulder again. “Those aren’t the things that make me happy anymore, Jon; but I’ll make us both new clothes from the old ones, with our sigil: the white direwolf.”

He kisses her head lightly. “You’re a true-born Stark; you should wear the grey direwolf of your father-”

“A lady wears the sigil of her husband,” she states firmly, and he knows these are the things she learned from her Septa when she was a girl. He is pleased that some part of that girl still exists. “A queen wears the sigil of her king,” she adds.

Jon smiles at that. “I’d like that,” he murmurs, “to see you dressed as my lady and queen…one day…when all this fighting is over; I’d like to see you in a splendid gown and, mayhaps, even a crown. I’ll ask the silversmiths at White Harbor to fashion one for you.”

“The kings of Winter wore a circlet of bronze with iron swords; old Nan said so,” Sansa reminds him.

“Aye; but my queen will have silver…and Valyrian steel swords adorning it,” he boasts mildly.

She is quiet a moment, and pensive. “We have no Valyrian steel,” she says sadly; and Jon knows that she refers to Ice. “You must keep your sword: it was entrusted to you.”

“Hm,” he cannot disagree with her. “Dragonglass then: a circle of dragonglass swords on silver,” he decides; and Sansa laughs: not loudly and not for long, but she laughs sweetly and unreservedly at such a silly little thing as he said to amuse her that Jon’s heart is elated at the sound. It gives him hope.

_We can laugh together; and soon we may come to truly love together. She will heal; and we will rule and we will fight together._

Mayhaps they would even win. And if they won, then they would live, and curl up in their bed every night to talk and laugh. In time they would have children and be close; they could someday be as Lord Stark and his Lady of Winterfell were close. Winter would end.

Mayhaps, in time…

 

FINIS

 


End file.
